


The Wolves and the Stone

by james



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, Lambert says fuck a lot, M/M, Mild Angst, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Geralt has a stone.  He doesn't know why, but when his brothers demand to know what it does...they meet Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 392
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	The Wolves and the Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_interuniversal_geometer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_interuniversal_geometer/gifts).



It was uncommon, but not all that unusual for Geralt to meet up with Eskel or Lambert out on the Path. Years ago, when hundreds of Witchers wandered the Continent it was normal to encounter another Witcher and even travel together for a contract or two. But now with so few of them remaining, Geralt would go weeks or months without even hearing word of one of his brethren.

But every few years he would meet up with one of his brothers, more or less on purpose. They each had areas of the Continent they preferred – due to climate, a preferred whorehouse, or Lambert's favorite disgusting ale. It was fairly easy to guess where each of them might be, so from time to time Geralt would aim Roach in one particular direction or another, and he'd meet up with his brothers and they'd travel together for a bit before parting ways again.

What was unusual was for all three of them to come together at the same time, as had happened that morning. Geralt hadn't really been intending to cross paths with them, but he'd held Roach up at the distant call of a familiar voice to find Eskel and Lambert traveling together and so of course he had joined them.

They'd made camp, and had finished eating and sharing what ale they'd had stashed between them. There would be another town in two more days, so none of them were worried about provisions. Now they were sitting around a small fire, sharing what few stories any of them had worth telling since they'd last seen one another at Kaer Morhen the past winter.

Geralt was sitting on a short log, elbows on his knees. His Wolf medallion was hanging freely, still swinging very slightly from when he'd first leaned forward. 

“You ever figure out what Varin fucking meant with that thing?” Lambert asked, gesturing towards it.

Geralt started to scowl at him, then realised what Lambert was referring to. He glanced down at the small round stone that rested on the chain beside his medallion. Without quite meaning to, he raised his hand to wrap his fingers around it – he caught himself quickly.

“You _have,_ ” Eskel said, sounding surprised as he sat up from where he'd been leaning back, head rested on his saddlebags. “What the fuck, why didn't you say so?”

Geralt opened his mouth to deny it, but it was too late. They'd know he was lying, and if he tried denying it anyway, they'd want to know _why._

Varin had been a right bastard, a Witcher no one had mourned when he'd died. But a few days after Geralt had received his Wolf medallion, he'd come to Geralt's room and handed him the small, smooth stone. He'd told Geralt to wrap it on the chain right next to the Wolf's head. When Geralt had asked him why, he'd just grunted, and said, “Might help.”

For years Geralt had worn it without a clue what it was for, or why Varin would have given it to him. He still didn't know _why,_ but as Eskel had guessed, he'd figured out at least a bit of what it was.

Lambert and Eskel were leaning forward, now, and Geralt knew they'd have no hesitation about throwing him into the river they'd passed not long before making camp. “I don't know exactly,” he began, and scowled at them as they both started to protest. “Come here,” he said, waving them closer. 

“What the fuck.” Lambert stopped, frowning with suspicion.

“If you want to know, I'll have to show you. I...I can't explain,” Geralt told him. Lambert just scowled back at him, not moving, until Geralt just sighed. He wrapped his hand around the medallion, covering the stone with his palm. He could hear it, faintly. He waved Eskel over, and his brother scooted to sit beside him. “Put your hand on mine,” Geralt told him.

After a moment's hesitation, Eskel did so, and Lambert muttered under his breath about idiots and curses and not going to fucking fuck with me, but he also moved forward and sat beside Geralt, placing his hand on top of Eskel's.

Geralt waited for a moment, listening.

“What--” Lambert started.

“You have to be quiet. It only works when--” _when I'm loneliest,_ Geralt thought, and swallowed those words before they spilled out. When he was out on the Path, away from his brothers and his home and anyone who ever accepted him for what he was. When he was out in the woods, waiting for night to fall or waiting for an elusive sleep, he would place his hand on the stone and he would hear it.

He could hear it now, and as Lambert fell silent, it slowly grew louder. 

Still faint, but Geralt could hear the music of a lute, being strummed, the soft noise of a song being sung. Still faint enough he couldn't make out the words; sometimes that was all he got. Sometimes it grew strong enough he could hear the singer, make out entire verses of songs that faded in and out as he strained to listen.

Once when he'd been badly injured and lying, feverish, he'd imagined the music had been sung right beside him and had dreamt of fingers running through his hair.

He heard Eskel's intake of breath, but his brother caught himself. Geralt could feel them both holding themselves still and the song grew stronger as they listened. A young man's voice, singing something cheerful and quick, and Geralt found himself smiling.

“What the fuck is--” Lambert began, and the sound vanished.

Both Geralt and Eskel glared at him. He just glared back. “What the _fuck_ is that? Some kind of fucking will o' the wisp? Going to lure us to our deaths?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but sighed. “I don't know. All I've ever heard is...just that. Music. Songs. Different, sometimes...” He took a deep breath and wished he could at least be drunk for this. “I think sometimes the music I hear depends on my mood.”

“So, like, it's a tiny magical music box?” Eskel asked, reaching out a finger to poke at the stone. “But it doesn't feel like...anything. There's no chaos, no vibration?”

“I don't know,” Geralt said again. “All I ever hear is music, and only when I'm alone – not in town, not at the keep. And it has to be skin contact, but I don't know why. I don't know what it is.” 

He didn't know why the fuck Varin had given it to him, because all it ever did was – comforted him. Alone on the Path, far from home or friendly faces, he'd clutch the stone in his hand and he'd hear someone singing to him.

Eskel was frowning, and he reached out for the stone, looking a question at Geralt. Geralt nodded and placed his hand on it again, with Eskel quickly setting his on top. Geralt glared at Lambert, who sighed with the weight of the entire world.

“Fine, you assholes owe me if we end up getting killed by that thing.” He put his hand on Eskel's and they fell silent once more.

The music came back, the same song as before, and this time they just sat quietly. The song grew stronger, Geralt could hear the words soon – an old drinking song, cheerful and loud. They sat and listened until Lambert shouted, “What the FUCK!”

Geralt and Eskel looked to where Lambert was staring – across the campfire sat a young man, dressed in bright clothes and holding a lute. As soon as their hands fell away from the stone, however, the figure vanished.

“Grab on again,” Geralt urged, elbowing Eskel and willing to grab Lambert's hand and place it there himself. But they grabbed onto the stone again, sat quietly, and soon enough the song returned.

And so did the singer.

Geralt could hardly breathe. They stared as the bard sang, playing his lute and smiling as he sang, happy and carefree as one would expect him to be at a tavern or inn, playing for the drinking customers. He looked humanoid, and as Geralt watched he grew _solid,_ until it looked and sounded for all the world like the bard was sitting there at the fire with them.

When his song ended, the three Witchers kept their hands on the stone and waited. 

“Oh!” The figure said, smiling at them brightly. His eyes met Geralt's, and – and. He didn't know. Like he knew him, like he'd known him once, somehow. 

“You're real,” Geralt breathed.

“Looks like!” the young man said, still smiling. He was looking around like the experience was new to him, glancing down at his arms and legs, tapping his toes up and down as though to see how they worked.

“What the fuck are you?” Lambert demanded, hand going towards a silver dagger he kept inside his tunic.

“A bard,” the young man said, calmly. 

“ _Who_ are you?” Eskel asked, sounding no more trusting despite his even tone.

The young man – the bard, tilted his head. “You can call me Jaskier.” He was still smiling, and he exuded an air of being sincere and trustworthy, as though the Witchers hadn't just seen him manifest from thin air.

“What do you want from Geralt?” Lambert demanded. “If you're trying to trap him or lure him away, you should know we're fucking Witchers and we kill things like you.”

Geralt wanted to snap at him, but held his tongue. It was stupid and foolish to assume the bard – whatever he was -- meant no harm. The fact Geralt felt like he'd known this person for years was irrelevant. Just because the bard's voice was the one soothing him to sleep, distracting him when he was waiting for the potions to heal his broken body, or helping him get through just one more night did not mean that Jaskier meant him no harm.

“What do you do?” Geralt asked.

“I sing, I play,” Jaskier began, and he laughed when Lambert growled at him. “I make music,” he continued, delightedly, throwing one hand in the air, the other still gripping his lute. “I make people remember why they fell in love, soothe grief, stir joy! I encourage people to dance, I ease you into sleep. I am music, I am Jaskier,” He looked Geralt in the eye and said, “I am yours for however long you need me.”

“Why?” Eskel demanded and his fingers tightened on Geralt's hand like he was threatening to crush the stone.

“I travel,” Jaskier said, sighing dramatically. “From one Witcher to another, I am passed along. To Walk the Path, to sing at supper and sing lullabies at night. I don't know who made me, or why, but now and then someone holds my stone and I come to life, and sing.” He strummed a chord on his lute, like a flourish. “I hear you,” he continued, carefully not looking at Geralt now. “When you talk to your horse I can hear you. I can smell the potions you concoct, see the stars when you lie back at night and let me sing.”

“You never manifested before now,” Geralt pointed out.

“I've never had three Witchers calling me at once,” Jaskier shrugged. “Must be something to it.” He gave Lambert a saucy wink, and Lambert growled back.

There was silence, then, until Eskel asked, “Why the fuck would Varin give you a stone that sings to you?”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Varin's an asshole,” he said. “I asked him to.”

There were, Geralt realised, a thousand questions he needed to ask. Things he wanted to demand, things he needed to know because things like this weren't safe. 

They were never safe. To think that something existed just to be...nice, and good. That wasn't part of the Witchers' Path.

Jaskier started playing his lute again as though he hadn't a care in the world. It was a soft song Geralt had heard once or twice before. He'd never heard the full thing, just enough to think it was sad, full of longing. 

“I mean you no harm, Witchers,” Jaskier said seriously. “I am only music. I cannot guide you, cannot reach into your minds, cannot blind you to the truth. I am music, and all I can do is play.”

Geralt could feel the tension in both Eskel and Lambert, but neither of them said anything. They sat while Jaskier played, and it was a sad song, of a person waiting by the hearth for the return of a long-lost lover who'd gone to sea. The song ended with no resolution except knowing the singer would continue to wait even if no one ever returned.

They sat in silence for a moment as the song died, then Lambert let go of their hands, and the stone. 

Jaskier still sat on the log with his lute. Geralt stared in surprise. Slowly, Eskel let go of his hand as well, and yet Jaskier remained, looking solid and real.

Geralt started to open his hand then stopped, and Jaskier gave him a nod. He let go of the stone, and Jaskier still sat there.

“Are you real, then? Did we bring you to life?” Lambert still sounded like he'd be happy to run Jaskier through with his silver sword.

Instead of answering, though, Jaskier just began to play another song. 

At some point, completely without meaning to, Geralt fell asleep. Too used to hearing Jaskier play for him, letting his music lull him into feeling safe and comforted. He awoke with a start, sitting upright and startling Eskel and Lambert beside him. It was early morning, and they'd all fall asleep, and Geralt jumped to his feet, cursing, because of course they'd fallen asleep, lulled into it by the creature, whatever it was-- Geralt looked around in confusion.

The campsite was exactly as it had been. None of their gear was missing, their horses were sleeping where they'd been left, several yards away. And there, next to the log Jaskier had sat on, was a young man, curled up on his side, holding a lute.

Geralt walked over, and crouched down. He looked and smelled human. Reaching down, he shook the young man awake.

Jaskier – for indeed it was – groaned. He shifted slightly, ducking his head down further. “It's too _early,_ Geralt, go back to sleep.”

“What the fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt demanded.

Another groan of annoyance, and Jaskier finally raised his head, blinking sleepily at him. “What do you--” He blinked, then blinked again and sat up quickly. He looked around, looked down at his hands, then grabbed his lute, pressing his hands over it like he wasn't sure it was real.

“You're still here,” Geralt said.

“I'm still here! I'm here, Geralt!” He grinned, and scrambled to his feet. “Look, Geralt! I have feet! I have knees! I'm real!” He spun in a circle, nearly tripping himself, and grabbed onto Geralt for balance.

Behind him, Geralt could hear Eskel and Lambert were awake and watching – there had been a slow hiss of a dagger drawn, but so far Lambert was apparently willing to wait.

Jaskier was opening and closing his hand, grinning in delight. 

“So now what?” Eskel asked, after they watched Jaskier stare at his hand.

Geralt shook his head, because fucked if he knew, but Jaskier looked at him. “I've been wanting to do this,” Jaskier said, then he lunged forward. Geralt caught him quickly, but Jaskier was already close and – and Jaskier kissed him.

It only lasted a second before Lambert was on his feet and throwing Jaskier backwards, but Geralt grabbed Lambert before he could do anything else. 

Jaskier had landed on his ass, and he laughed. “Witcher reflexes, I've only seen them, never got to feel. Oh! Can I pet Roach? I've been wanting to pet Roach!” He rolled onto his knees and tried to get to his feet. After an attempt or two, he managed it and hurried off towards the horses.

Lambert stalked after him, no doubt to defend the horses' virtues if necessary, and Geralt just watched. He heard Roach nicker happily, though, which meant... It meant he didn't want to think about it.

Eskel stepped up beside him and rested his elbow on Geralt's shoulder. “So,” Eskel said after a moment.

“A magical song stone, brought to life by the force of three drunken Witchers?” Geralt suggested.

“Except we weren't really drunk,” Eskel said.

“We don't have to tell anyone that part,” Geralt said. 

“The fuck was Varin doing with...a bard spell?”

“Not like we can ask him,” Geralt said. “Bard spell come to life.”

“Eh, it'll probably fade soon,” Eskel said, and Geralt scowled. He didn't want Jaskier to fade, but fuck if he knew-- 

Eskel laughed. “Or maybe he'll stick around through the power of love,” he said, then he jumped back to avoid Geralt's swipe. 

“I'm not in love with a bard spell,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier and Lambert were coming back, and Jaskier was grinning, bright as the sun, and when he looked at Geralt his face brightened even more. “Geralt! I pet Roach and she's as soft as you say she is! Can I give her an apple? Oh! What do apples taste like? Can _I_ have one?” He walked right up to Geralt and stopped, tilted his head before leaning in and giving Geralt a second kiss.

Then he made a beeline for the saddlebags and began rummaging through them.

Eskel hmmed, and said, “Didn't say _you_ loved _him._ ” 

They watched as Jaskier dug through Geralt's bags until he found a small apple. He acted like he knew exactly where everything was, familiarity from long years of traveling at Geralt's side. He held up the apple triumphantly, then headed back towards the horses, giving the three Witchers a nod as he went past.

They watched as he approached Roach, holding the apple out for her. He was humming, another song Geralt knew, one about springtime and flowers blooming. The main verse was about two vines growing twined with one another, an unsubtle metaphor about love, with an even more unsubtle chorus about fucking.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder at them, and winked.

Geralt sighed. His brothers were never going to let him live this one down.

~ ~ ~

_several decades before_

“You're an _ass_ ,” the voice said. “I hate you and you don't like my songs.”

Varin grumbled under his breath, coughing to disguise the words he dearly wanted to say. He'd looked into the best way to strangle an apparition but so far he'd had no luck.

“Give me away,” the voice hissed in his ear – or in his head. He could never be sure.

“Fucking shut it,” Varin whispered. “Fine! Gods, who.” He'd be glad to get rid of the pest, and cursed the Witcher who'd passed it along to him. Ravoin had seemed like he'd been doing Varin a _favor_ when he'd handed the stone over. But he hadn't explained how to shut the fucking thing up. 

“Him! Give me to him. He looks nice.”

Varin looked and the only Witcher he could see was the kid, Geralt. Hair gone white as snow with the second Trials they'd put the poor bastard through. The boy kept to himself now, more often as not. His friends still tried to spend time with him, or so Varin thought. He was too busy with the trainees to worry about the ones who made it.

“Fine.” He stormed after, as Geralt disappeared into the corridor leading to the young Witchers' quarters, and banged on his door, bard-stone in hand.

After he gave it away, all he could think was finally, he might get some decent fucking sleep.

Behind him, the stone hummed softly as Geralt's hand closed over it for the first time.


End file.
